


Come Here, Boy

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Hogwarts Era, Mystery, The Quidditch Pitch: From Diagon Alley to Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-19
Updated: 2006-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: Harry and Luna with a twist...





	Come Here, Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Kindly beta’d by [](http://goldie.livejournal.com/profile)[**goldie**](http://goldie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://kittenfaced.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kittenfaced.livejournal.com/)**kittenfaced**. And I’ve just totally given away who I am. Nevermind. Emcue, I hope you enjoy it!  


* * *

Shadows fall around him, muffling the sound of each footstep. The moon is only a sliver tonight, tangled in the branches of the tree that sweeps the sky. She laughs softly, and he thinks for a second that she is floating. He’s ensnared by her, enraptured, tangled in her hair, he can’t breathe.

The forest seems to exhale around him as he watches her dance. Her hair seems silver under the barely there light of the moon. Starlight is hers, tracing the outline of her arms, silvering the nape of her neck, the sweep of hair that swings over her shoulder as she beckons him out.

\--

Dust from the tapestry gets up her nose, and she twitches it, trying to suppress the sneeze that is itching the inside, begging to be set free. She is listening, straining her ears to hear the slight whisper as he turns the pages, slamming the book closed and pushing it into the centre of the table with an exasperated sigh.

She likes watching him, likes the way he ruffles his hair with one hand, the way his shirt tails pull out at the back and the way that the knot in his tie loosens until he looks almost as comfortable as she is.

\--

Photographs spill out of her grasp when he steps up behind her; breathes on her neck. The black and white people in the images scurry for the edges of their twilight lands as they cascade across the stone floor.

“Harry!” she says, and his smile twists the corners of his mouth awkwardly. She smiles too, in relief and regret more than pleasure.

Their hands collide when they bend to pick up the photographs, shuffling them awkwardly into a rough pile.

He is surprised, afterwards, that her fingerprints have not left a burning red mark on his wrist. He can still feel them there, scorching into the flesh.

\--

Droplets of ink blotch into the parchment, resembling fat hairy spiders with no legs as he wracks his brain for a word to rhyme with her name. The quill is wet and soggy as he presses it against his lips, making him long for the security of a chewed plastic ballpoint, left behind at the Dursley’s.

He compares her eyes to limpid pools, her mouth to a rosebud, her hands to white doves, but somehow he feels his words are lacking the depth of her, the soul she freely offers him when she looks at him, looks _through_ him in the misty half-light under the trees.

It’s in this light that he wonders if she has wings, gauzy transparent things as fragile as knotted strands of hair, not fist and bone, no clenching sinew or pulsing blood, but vague intangible cobweb strands of silvery blonde.

\--

There are times when she is not interested in him, pushes the hot weight of him off her as she lies cradled in the airy space between the sky and the earth. He is forced to satisfy himself then, his fingers too calloused and rough to even allow him to pretend that they are her slim ones, her smooth grasp capturing him as he grunts and pants and bucks, hobbled with his grey uniform trousers around his ankles.

But sometimes, sometimes her lips are hot and fierce against his, her teeth insistent as she bites down on his lip, his fingers opening and closing between her legs, like the slow slide of a sunflower as it tracks the sun. But of course, she is not the sun, she is the moon, and her waxing and waning is as inevitable as the seasons.

\--

Feathers spin in the hazy air of the owlery, the heat sedating them both as they lie, her head pillowed on his chest, his glasses askew on his face. He has his fingers twined in her hair. It’s shorter than he remembers, as it lies oddly weightless on his palms and he breathes in the smell of her.

Her taste is still on his tongue, her warmth expanding around him as he licked and she groaned, shifting her hips towards him, an easy unhurried movement as though they have all the time in the world, as though Hogwarts would still be there if they glanced out of the narrow window.

\--

Chocolates and flowers seem overdone. Of course, Ginny liked flowers, and Hermione likes chocolates. Flowers make Harry sneeze, and he’s never convinced that he’s picking actual wildflowers, instead of weeds.

She doesn’t really like sweet things, she told him once, earnestly, as they shared a piece of rhubarb pie in the kitchens late one night. The sour tang that stays on her tongue, the bite of garlic, the bitterness of pickles – those are her favourites.

As for flowers? She’d rather have Neville’s _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ , a ticket to Sweden to find the elusive Crumple-Horned Snorkack, a handful of Fizzing Whizzbees, the one sweet she does like because they make her feel as though she’s foaming at the mouth, being quite mad.

He can’t get her any of those things now. Honeydukes was burnt to the ground and Neville’s gone; no one knows where. Part of him almost hopes it was into the churned mud of the field between the forest and the castle; hopes Neville never had to witness Harry turn and run, apparate away from the final confrontation.

\--

She pretends delight at the raggedly scarf he found in the forest, the crest all but gone and the green wool unwinding at one end.

“I know it’s not much,” he says awkwardly, to break the silence that has its fingers clenched around their throats.

She doesn’t reply, though, setting a finger against his lips and pinching his nipple through the filthy shirt he’s wearing. He shifts uncomfortably as she uses the scarf to bind his hands behind his back, pressing him into the wall until he can feel the sharp edged stones gouging into his spine.

Her lips on him are firm and it’s not long before she brings her hands up, resting them on his hips, pushing him further and deeper into the wall, swallowing him down again and again until she is with the stars behind his eyes, tangled in the overhanging branches, sliding up and down and back again, silky smooth.

He is gasping now, the stones pressing against his scalp as he twists, aching for more, the silver tipped claws raking at his spine as he comes, and she swallows it all, and the world snaps back into focus.

\--

It’s not Luna on her knees in front of him, not the starlight blonde of her hair wrapped around his fingers. The silvery grey of her eyes is replaced with the watery grey of Malfoy’s, and Harry shoves him off in disgust, wrenching his hands out of the scarf and throwing it onto Malfoy’s huddled body.

Harry’s saliva trails down Malfoy’s cheek and onto the stones as he walks away, leaden-footed.


End file.
